On feeling sorry for people

Doc, you crack me up. You are a character. Consider yourself stereotyped.

Oh boy! Christmas came early.I can't wait to find out what I'm stereotyped as. I won't be too offended as long as it's a reasonable assumption and you allow me to change your mind.

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The American Drivel Review

I just told you. You are slotted according to my private classification system into the category of a "character" (that means "interesting person"). It doesn't get much better than that.

Or always, but only in a Mind.

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I'm a soft touch.All the street people see it right away--the alkies, the crazies...the crack whores wanna show me their tits...everybody's got my number.In Third World countries, everyone else can leave the station unbeleaguered because the starving children see me coming a mile away. Maybe my eyes bleed compassion, I don't know--maybe I just look stupid. I never need a piggy bank because I give all my change away.Sometimes I resolve to harden my heart.One New Year's Eve I was walking to the liquor store to buy some wine for dinner. Two familiar homeless guys (at least one a fellow vet--I could tell by his tattoos) watched me approach. When I reached them, the vet asked, "Hey, buddy, got any spare change?""Nope.""That all you gotta say?""Yep.""Who the hell you think you are, Gary Cooper?"I was so tickled I bought them a case of beer and dropped it off on the way home. They were politely incredulous when I told them I spent a year or two (I couldn't remember exactly) living on the street:"You don't look like it""Well, I stopped. It wasn't fun anymore."They still didn't look convinced. I didn't have the heart to tell them that some things don't leave as many scars as booze.But they really appreciated the beer. They offered to come home with me and share, but I begged off.Nice guys, though.

I spent a couple of months in an Army hospital, basically rotting off a leg beneath a cast while they treated me for pneumonia. The Army's like that.One day a WWII vet came around with a chessboard, asking did anyone wanna play? Sure, I said, a coupla games would be nice.I used to play competitive chess. I cleaned his clock three times in a row, real quick.After the third game, he threw the pieces into the box, slammed the hinged board closed, and said, "Goddamned smartass. Play with yourself."He never came back. I guess the pity factor just wasn't enough.

Me too.

Was that you?

Pure opinion, nothing more.

Downtown Detroit, yes it is a safe assumption. Assuming you are talking about money vs. conversation. In the real world what good does a conversation do for a homeless person?It might give them a sense of comfort, warmth, ect., ect., hell it probably does as much good for you as it does for them.

Hmm... didn't know I was talking about Detroit.
I thought I was talking about "my" homeless people. Give a man a fish....In the long run, treating a man like a man does him a lot more good than a handout. You really are determined to miss the point, aren't you? That's what I've been saying all along - it's for our good, not somebody else's. It enriches our lives when we recognize the value of somebody else's life.That's what started the whole discussion, remember? Robin missed an oppurtunity to enrich his life.Edited by Ringo, : Spelling.Edited by Ringo, : More spelling. Measure twice, cut once.

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Well, I'm not about Robin's life.But I will tell another story.My grandmother died at 107. She was a virulent, vocal racist almost all the years I knew her. I, on the other hand, grew up in a white trash neighborhood, the last block before the black ghetto. I had lots of black friends. A black boy saved my life when I was five years old and immunized me. I became "radicalized," as the fasionable term went in the 60s, on issues of race, class, and, eventually, gender.At family gatherings, inevitably my grandmother would launch a racist rant. I would confront her, and in no uncertain terms renounce her racism and hatred. This went on for years and years. Family members would buttonhole me and say, "She's too old to change. It's unmannerly to confront her that way. Just let it go."I would reply, "She's talking in front of children. All it takes to keep bigotry alive is silence."Finally, at her 103rd birthday party, she motioned me close, and said, "You know, boy, you're right. We're all God's people."You could've knocked me over with a breath. I was amazed. Some of my nephews, nieces, and great-such came to me later that day to comment that they had been changed by my insistence on confronting her hatefulness, and that they shared my joy that she had come around.The moral of this story?If we lived long enough, we would all become good.

Yea, should of been a little more specific. We really don't have homeless people in my city, no where to stay in the suburbs. All depends on the man on both sides. It shouldn't be about enriching anyone else life but the person who needs it. I don't need to feel good about myself in that situation. I am walking around with a place to live, that is enough for me to realize I don't need any more enrichment in my life compared to the man on the street.I recognize that value of his life, it is equal to mine. His quality of life isn't the same though and that is what I want to change, with a small monitary contribution. Weither on booze or a hot meal - that is up to him.I can't offer him a piece of my mind, nor do I think he wants it from me. As Faith said - I would probably screw it up somehow.I can give him some money and a smile. Edited by NeuroCycle, : format fix

But it isn't about "need" at all.Forget about the homeless people. Go back to the veterans. They don't "need" anything from you except the recognition that their lives and limbs haven't been wasted. The only way you can "give" that is by interaction.

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Amen, brother.